No Soldier Story

These ghost soldiers live underground with the vast

oversupply of castoff lanterns.

If one were to take broadsword to one of these

orange-bearded mammoth men of rough hew,

he would laugh at the passing metal,

make light of entrails.

For years I have been here without a clear map.

That hopes should dim as days go on above is

natural I suppose, what do I know?

I am dressed like one of them.

The thick walls quake but stay soundproof.

I fear my fists vestigial.

These soldiers’ own panic is taking up rugs

finding filigrees of the former world beneath,

e.g., a locket with their mongrel’s mush.

They will freeze, then feign noncom; smacking barrels of burgundy

with pistol butts. I react comme squirrel:

fleeing their reach to the chamber out of the impact area.

One loved me until I asked if he worried about what must be

happening without us. Well, his lips did narrow, hand abandoned my knee,

blah, blah big mouth were his departing words.

I will not say with shame that I came from nothing.

Someone paved my first breakthrough at least,

one time calling it love. And I will stand by that

as it applies to my primary makeup.

Source: Union! (Canarium Books, 2009)